Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a
twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a
goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda
Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while
Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar
belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes,
and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming
that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for
their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while
Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire
until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid
to be let out and peeled.
“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your
brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half
an hour.”
“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah!
There’s _such_ a goose, Martha!”
[Illustration: BOB CRATCHIT AND TINY TIM]
“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs.
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and
bonnet for her.
“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the
girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”
“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit
down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”
“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who
were everywhere at once.
“Hide, Martha, hide!”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with
at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his
shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs
supported by an iron frame!
“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”
Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in
joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him
off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the
kettle.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had
hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,
sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church,
because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember
upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”
Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he
said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool before the fire. Then Master Peter and the two young
Cratchits went to bring the goose, with which they soon returned in
high glee.
Such excitement followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest
of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy, ready beforehand in a little saucepan,
hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened
the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside
him in a tiny corner at the table.
The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting
themselves. Then climbing into their chairs, they held their fingers
over their lips, lest they should call for goose before their turn came
to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It
was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. When
she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one
murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited
by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his
knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was
such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, and size were wonderful to
think of. With apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was enough dinner
for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight,
looking at one small bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten all of it
yet. But every one had had enough, even the youngest Cratchits. But
now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the
room to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be
done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody
should have climbed over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it,
while they were merry with the goose! The two young Cratchits almost
went black in the face when they thought of what might have happened.
Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the kettle.
A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating-house and a baker’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s
next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs.
Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like
a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, and decked with Christmas
holly. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said it was the best
pudding he had ever seen. Everybody had something to say about it, but
nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.
At last the dinner was all done, the hearth swept, and the fire
made. All the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, and watched the
chestnuts on the fire as they sputtered and cracked. Then Bob said,
“Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”
Which all the family re-echoed.
“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
--CHARLES DICKENS.
* * * * *
Darkness before, all joy behind!
Yet keep thy courage, do not mind:
He soonest reads the lesson right
Who reads with back against the light.